Angel, page 4
Ian smiled wistfully.
“Do you have a church?” Paul asked. “You could come on Sunday. I’d like it if you did.”
Ian turned again and looked back out the window. “Church and I, we’re kind of divorced,” he said. “Turn left here.”
Ian lived on an alley off the town’s main street in a run-down apartment building with large stone steps. It looked like a cold concrete block. Nothing about it said “home.” It was a dwelling.
Paul took the car’s service manual out of the pocket in the door and tore out a blank page. He took a pen out of the cup holder and wrote down his cell phone number and the name “Paul.”
“This is my number,” he said, handing the paper to Ian. “Call me tomorrow when you’re ready to go get your car. Okay?”
“Yeah,” Ian said. He took the paper, folded it, and stuffed it into his front jeans pocket. Then he opened the door and stumbled out of the car.
“Do you need me to help you get in?” Paul asked.
“No. I still know how to turn door knobs,” he said.
Paul sat at the curb and watched Ian weave his way up the steps, fumble with his keys in the lock, and then disappear through the door.
On the drive home, Paul reviewed every word of their conversation. He cataloged the information—Ian was twenty-four. He had never known his alcoholic father. He must have felt some connection to Paul to reveal something that personal, right?
“Church and I, we’re kind of divorced….”
Paul wondered if he’d made a mistake pushing church. He didn’t want Ian to think he was only interested in drumming up attendance at his services. But if Ian didn’t come to the church, when would he ever see him again? At least he knew he would have one more opportunity to talk to him when he picked him up. What could he say?
Desecration
The English theologian Thomas Burnet, in spite of a complete lack of training in science and geography, published a book in the seventeenth century called Sacred Theory of the Earth, which sought to explain how the Earth came to be the way it is today. He speculated that up until Noah’s flood, the world had been a hollow sphere with the water inside. When man’s sinfulness became too much for God to bear, he unleashed the water to wash the wickedness away. Mountains remain as scars on the earth, reminders of a great punishment for our weakness.
It seemed quite possible that Paul would not have a sermon at all that Sunday. He sat at his desk, unable to concentrate on anything but the cell phone, which he had placed in the center of his desk. He had no intention of missing Ian’s call when it came. His right leg bounced as he checked his e-mail and pretended not to be waiting for the phone to ring.
It was one thirty before the generic ringtone started to play. Paul was so startled he nearly jumped out of his chair.
“Hello.”
“Hi, um, is this… Paul?”
“Yes. This is Paul.”
“Hi, um, this is Ian. I… I think you might have brought me home? I had your number in my pocket.”
“Yes. Are you ready for me to take you back to your car?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Ian was sitting out on the front step of his apartment, smoking a cigarette, when Paul drove up. When he saw the car, he dropped the cigarette and crushed it out with his foot as he stood up. (Great, his angel was a smoker too.) Paul had expected to find Ian looking hungover, sick and pale, but there was no evidence at all of the night before on his face. His hair was pulled back neatly with a black hair band. This accentuated his cheekbones and made his eyes seem even brighter and more alert. He wore plaid slacks, a matching jacket, and a T-shirt with the name of a rock band Paul had never heard of. He looked fashionable, fit and young. When Ian spotted Paul, he was taken aback.
“Wait, you’re that minister,” he said. “With the pamphlets.”
“You seem surprised.”
“It’s just not what I was expecting.” His expression was mischievous, conspiratorial. “So you go to the clubs?”
It took Paul a moment to understand, but it finally dawned on him: Ian didn’t remember a thing. He’d blacked out the entire previous afternoon and evening. When he found a piece of paper in his pocket with a cell phone number and the name “Paul,” he assumed that the minister “brought him home.” If he assumed a man took him home, what was this club he imagined he’d been to?
“No,” Paul said, a bit defensively. “No. You don’t remember yesterday at all?”
Ian scratched the back of his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s embarrassing. Sometimes I have these blackouts. But look, if something happened between us, I’m sure….”
“Nothing happened between us,” Paul snapped. “I’m not…. We had a whole conversation.”
Paul had spent every minute since their last meeting replaying every word of the conversation, turning it over for mistakes and clues and meanings, yet for Ian, it had never happened. How could he have erased something so significant to Paul and replaced it with something so impersonal, ordinary, and base?
Ian gazed downward. He looked confused and vulnerable, and it triggered Paul’s protective instincts. The more lost Ian looked, the more beautiful he became. And the more beautiful he grew, the more frustrated Paul became. God had created this man with a quick wit and the face of an angel. How could he so easily throw a gift like that away? It was spitting in God’s face.
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” Ian said to his shoes.
Paul’s tone was harsh: “You were sitting, drunk, on the floor in my church. You showed up on the wrong day looking for an AA meeting that didn’t exist. You could hardly walk, and you were going to drive yourself home. So I brought you here to keep you from killing yourself. That’s what happened.”
“Oh.” The blood rushed into Ian’s cheeks. “So this would be one of those embarrassing moments.”
“Which part? Being falling down drunk in a church, or confusing the minister for someone you picked up in a gay bar?”
“Yeah,” was all Ian had to say.
Paul regretted his harshness. “Come on,” he said more gently. “Get in. I’ll take you to your car.”
They rode for a few blocks in silence. Eventually, Ian said, “I’m sorry, you know. I just assumed. It’s nothing to do with you. It’s just the way my life has been lately.”
“It’s none of my business, but….”
“But?”
“How often does that happen? You wake up, and you don’t know who took you home or what happened the night before?”
“Not very often. A few times. You know, sometimes. It’s just the kinds of places I go, if someone takes you home, you figure…. I didn’t mean to imply anything. I’m sure you’re a good minister.”
“It’s okay.” Paul smiled. “I guess I should be flattered, really. An old guy like me.”
Ian relaxed. “You’re not that old,” he said. “Anyway, I like older men.”
The phrase “I like older men” hung in the air. Paul had never spoken openly to a gay man before. He’d never heard a man tell him about his attraction for a certain type of male. It felt wrong. Paul’s own aversion confused him. He had been thinking about Ian for weeks, constantly, intrusively. He could recall every contour of his face, the way the corners of his lips curled up when he smiled, his big aqua eyes, the curve of his upturned nose, even the mostly faded chicken pox scar over his left eyebrow and the small mole directly under the center of his right eye—the tiny brown dot was so symmetrically placed that it seemed like the subtle signature of the artist, the autograph of God. He had been unable to stop the sexual fantasies and dreams. Ian was attracted to men. There was at least a chance for the two of them (though Ian was clearly out of his league). This should have thrilled Paul. Why was he upset?
It wasn’t entirely jealousy, although that was part of it. The image of his angel being pawed by some clumsy drunken middle-aged man in a dark corner of a bar was almost too much for Paul to bear. The thought that there might have been many, too many to remember, was even worse. It was desecration, pure and simple. It discouraged him about the nature of humanity. Were people all so focused on their own desires that they failed to recognize the gift of divine beauty and to treat it as sacred?
But was the nature of his own desire any different? Was it also a desecration? Or could our basest instincts be purified by love? Only disembodied angels could have a true union of souls. As ridiculous as all that sexual groping and pumping and flopping around might seem, it is the closest thing to divine union we have on this earth.
Paul had dreamed of kissing Ian’s lips. He longed for it to be possible. Yet in his dreams, it had always been as singular and extraordinary for the young man as it was for Paul, an exception, not the rule. The angel had no experience, no past; in fact, Paul imagined the moment without any context at all. Now he realized it might be possible to have the real Ian in his life. But the price would be very high. He would have to give up the beautiful fantasy. The angel would have to come down to earth.
Ian could tell he’d made Paul uncomfortable, but he completely misjudged why.
“I guess you preach that it’s a sin, ‘men lying down with men’,” he said.
“Let he who is without sin….”
“So you do think it’s a sin?”
“It’s not something I preach about.”
“You’re a Christian, though, right? You think it’s an ‘abomination’?”
“You’re quoting the Old Testament.”
“The Bible. And in your church you believe that God wrote the Bible?”
“Men wrote the Bible, but they were inspired by God.”
“So everything in it must be true, because God doesn’t make mistakes?”
“I suppose. More or less.”
“Well, if God doesn’t want there to be gay people, and he went ahead and made them anyway, that seems like a pretty big mistake to me. One or the other has to be a mistake. They can’t both be true.”
“That’s a good point. I think the church’s position is that God made people with free will and they make their own choices.”
“You think it’s a choice?”
“I think that’s the church’s position.”
“You’re the minister. What do you say?”
“I don’t know.”
They continued riding for a moment in silence. Finally, Ian asked, “Are you married?”
“I was.”
“So you’ve been in love, then, right? I mean, have you ever just looked at someone and felt like you were struck by lightning?”
Paul felt his heart race. Could Ian possibly know? “Yes,” he said.
“Did you have a choice?”
Paul pulled into the church parking lot. He turned off the car and looked straight into Ian’s eyes. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”
They held each other’s gaze. Could the look have really been as long and significant as it felt to Paul?
Ian turned away and looked out the window at his own car. “I actually got it in a parking space. Pretty impressive.”
“Do you usually drive when you’ve had that much to drink?” Paul asked.
Ian wrinkled his forehead, but he didn’t answer the question directly. “I really need to stop,” he said softly. “Sorry if I was…. Well, I mean, thanks again for everything.” He started to pull the door handle.
“Wait!” Paul said, with a bit more urgency than he’d intended. He couldn’t leave things the way they were, with Ian thinking Paul disapproved of him.
“I think, it seems like maybe we got off on a bad foot,” he began. “I just hope you’ll… please keep my number. Because, I’d just rather you call me. I’d rather, if you were in a situation. Sometimes it helps to talk to somebody who’s not part of your normal life. I mean, I’m not working on commission. I’m not trying to save a certain number of souls to win a trip to Tahiti.” What on Earth was his mouth doing? “Maybe you’re kind of embarrassed about how you were yesterday, but it’s okay. You don’t have anything to be ashamed of. I think you’re very smart. A lot of people, they are too intimidated to talk to a minister like that.”
“You’re just a person, right?”
“Just like you. Keep my number. It’s my cell. It’s not the church. If anything goes wrong, you can reach me day or night. You can call me at two in the morning if you need to.”
“Sure,” Ian said as he got out of the car. “Thanks.”
Paul could tell Ian never planned to come back and he would not call.
As the days passed, Paul thought about Ian, but the thoughts took on a different character. It was not longing and desire but worry and concern that occupied him. He wondered why God would have made him aware of the young man and his troubles if He was not going to give Paul the power to do anything about it.
Ian was a beautiful, precious young man desperately in need of rescue. It pained Paul to have seen it. He was filled with a desire to act—to do something, but what could he do? If he saw someone being abused, he could not stand by and watch it happen. He would have to intervene. But in this case, the abuser and the abused lived in the same body.
Paul was a virtual stranger to Ian. There was no way the young man would accept his help if he offered it uninvited. He had to leave it in God’s hands. That was the hardest thing to do. Why had God cursed him with knowing about Ian? What was the point of this lesson? Was this, after all, the moral of his angelic vision—futility? Impotence? Hadn’t God done enough to impress that message upon him already?
In the end, all Paul could do was pray: “Take care of him, God. Help him find his way.”
Faith
There is a popular mythology about climbing mountains. An entire genre of inspirational books recounts a dangerous summit climb and the spiritual lessons gained from it. When they prepare for a summit push, mountaineers imagine the sense of elation and accomplishment at the peak. They imagine moments of reverence and spiritual revelation. But when they actually get there, most climbers are filled with nothing so much as a sense of exhaustion and the knowledge that a long and difficult journey still lies ahead. The mountain steadfastly refuses to conform to the stories we impose upon it.
Paul was riding the back of an elephant as it went charging through the sanctuary of the church. He was afraid the animal might knock over the pews like so many dominoes. He pulled on the reins, trying to gain control, when he heard music playing. A generic cell phone ringtone.
“What?”
Paul sat straight up in bed. He looked at the clock. It was almost 2:00 a.m. Where was his cell phone? Paul rolled out of bed and went running toward the sound, nearly tripping over an end table along the way. He managed to reach the phone, in the kitchen, just before the voice mail picked up.
“Hello?” he said in a groggy voice.
“Hi, um, Paul? I don’t know if you remember me. It’s Ian. Ian Finnerty. You drove me home that one time.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Yeah, well, the thing is. I’m kind of… in jail. I didn’t know who else to call.”
This was not a call Paul ever, in his life, imagined he would be getting—the 2:00 a.m. “come bail me out of jail” call. God was really testing him with this angel. Paul got dressed, drove to the ATM half asleep, and took out $200 in cash. Then he drove to a part of town he rarely had cause to visit, especially not at 2:00 a.m. with a wallet full of cash.
Well, on the upside, now I know where the jail is, for future reference, he thought.
Ian sat in one corner of the cell with his feet on the long wooden bench and his knees curled up to his chest. His head was tilted down, hiding his face behind his long hair. It was the same position in which Paul had found him weeks ago sitting on the floor of the pavilion. The institutional green walls gave everything a pallid other-worldly appearance. Paul allowed himself a momentary daydream. If an angel ever did come to earth, maybe men would put it in a zoo for family entertainment and scientific study. It might look something like this.
“Hello, Ian,” Paul said.
Ian glanced up. He blushed slightly. His eyebrows came up in the center, making his eyes appear larger, like a faun’s.
“I kept your number,” he said with an embarrassed smile. His expression was that of a wounded child and automatically generated sympathy. Paul wondered if this look was a well-rehearsed gambit by someone aware of his own beauty and accustomed to making use of it. If it was, it hardly lessened the effect.
Paul responded with his best imitation of a school teacher. “First time I’ve been called in the middle of the night to bail someone out of jail,” he said.
“It’s always an adventure with me. You said I could call at 2:00 a.m.…. I guess you didn’t think I would.”
“Why didn’t you call one of your friends?”
Ian rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I’ve burned a few bridges.”
Paul sighed. “I’d like to be your friend,” he said, “but I have to know something.”
“What?”
“You’re sitting in a jail cell. Is this rock bottom for you, or do you have farther to go? Because if you do, I’m not sure I want to watch it.”
Ian’s eyes welled up. He pressed his lips together into a thin line. He didn’t look away, nor did he answer.
“I can bail you out,” Paul said. “I brought money. And I want to help you. But if you just want to get out of here so you can drink yourself to death, I’m not going to be part of that. You’re better off here.”
The tears escaped down Ian’s cheeks, and he pulled his knees in tighter toward his chest. “I’ve tried,” he said. “I want to stop. I really do.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yeah.”
Paul nodded. “Then I’ll help you.”
Ian chewed on the nail of his left index finger. Paul noticed for the first time that his nails had already been gnawed almost to the nub. Paul described his plan. He would bail Ian out of jail and be a character witness for him with the judge if he would agree to go to a rehabilitation center. Paul would help him with the expense if Ian could not afford it. He would recommend to the court that Ian be given community service at the church as soon as he got out of treatment. As a local minister, his word carried a lot of weight.
